


Written in Stone

by sue_denimme



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5671426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sue_denimme/pseuds/sue_denimme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor's thoughts at Darillium. (Note: Spoilers for The Husbands of River Song. Knowledge of the Tenth Doctor episodes Silence in the Library and Forest of the Dead would probably be useful.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written in Stone

He's sick to death of time loops. He's run into (or inadvertently caused) way too many of them. Seemed like the last lifetime was practically made of them, and this one's had more than its share as well, so far.

Comes with the job, really, though. If you could call it a job. But this loop is quite an important one, so he'd better get this end of it right.

He supposes he could try to postpone it a bit longer. He's got plenty of incarnations now, waiting to inherit whatever this one leaves them. Let the next one handle it. Or the next.

But things ending is what time is. Every moment needs to die so that the next one can be born. Not even he gets to keep any of them. A person can wish for a certain moment to never end, but who wants to be stuck in the same moment forever? No matter how beautiful and perfect it is, eventually you'd want a sandwich. Unless eating a sandwich is your idea of a beautiful, perfect moment. It could be. Who is he to judge?

Anyway, it's been centuries now for him. Two incarnations. Well over a thousand years. Over four and a half billion, if being stuck in that damn castle counts. But he remembers what she said. What has to happen. What he has to do.

It's the "having to do" that he hates about time loops, of course. His hands being tied. Worse than that, the temptation to rebel, bust loose, go wild, break everything just to show time it's not the boss of him. He's done that before. It's never ended well. He's got an aching gap in his head where somebody once was to prove it.

Donna would be telling him to quit moaning and get it over with, right about now.

He does. He's already on Darillium, the singing towers practically at the TARDIS' threshold, so that's convenient. Tick. He's had the new sonic screwdriver, red settings, dampers, and all, built and ready, carefully hidden in a trunk, for ages. Tick, tick, tick. And he's got a diamond that could build a thousand restaurants, though he only needs one.

He's already done the showing up on her doorstep (the ramp of a spaceship, actually, very funny, River) with a new haircut and suit, even. He'd call it a coincidence, but he's learned long ago not to trust those. Tickity, tick, tick.

He gives her the screwdriver, and while she's still shocked by the admittedly slightly uncharacteristic generosity, he makes sure to scan her and store the imprint in the neural relay he installed especially for this. Big tick.

He'd forgotten about the crying, until there he was, standing there with eyes wet, not very but enough for her to notice. He tells her it's the wind. She doesn't believe him, but lets him change the subject. He remembers then. He remembers wondering if he could do that while knowing ahead of time that he would. And that was when he was in an incarnation who was all about expressing the emotions. This one really, really isn't, except sarcastically maybe. But well, who wouldn't cry, time loop or not? Tick, and tick.

Anything else? No, nothing. He's not necessarily the best at remembering important things, but he's sure.

It's all down to his past self now. There's no way to give himself any hints; he'll have to figure out how to save her on his own. But he knows he did, so he knows he will.

He's relieved, in a way. The moment he's been dreading is over. And it's sad, but not unbearable. He can go on. So can she. After all, she hadn't said how much time had passed between this night and her going to the Library. She'd looked pretty much the same as she did now -- he thinks (this incarnation is terrible at guessing ages from faces) -- but with an augmented lifespan, it could be tomorrow or it could be a century.

Finally, something not written in stone. Room to breathe. Twenty-four years.

"What a night that was," she'll tell him. His past self. He hopes she likes him. He hadn't really been sure back then if she did or not. Frankly, he'd been too busy wondering who the hell she was and how anyone could get to be so important to him that he would tell them his name.

He'll just have to find out. The lucky bastard.

 

-end


End file.
